


A Losing Battle

by blackat_t7t



Category: Catch Me If You Can (2002)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drama, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16314263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackat_t7t/pseuds/blackat_t7t
Summary: Carl and Frank look back on their lives, and the role each has played in the other's





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from LiveJournal on 10/15/2018

Carl Hanratty shifted in his cheap coach seat on the plane. Sure, it was an aisle seat, and the space next to him was empty, but it was still uncomfortable. He glanced over at the sleeping figure in the seat next to him, slumped against the window of the plane. Frank Abagnale Jr. Looking at him, you wouldn’t believe he had conned millions of dollars from several countries.

Yes, the kid looked pretty innocent when he was sleeping, not like the conman Hanratty knew he was. And that _was_ how Hanratty thought of him– The Kid. There was no point in using one of his names; they changed too quickly to be of any use. And although Hanratty would never admit it, calling him The Kid made Hanratty feel superior. He was just a kid, after all, and there was no way he could outsmart an adult, in the end. And in the end, Hanratty had gotten him.

But he _was_ just a kid. Not even nineteen. Hanratty glanced over at the sleeping figure again, his gaze lingering on the soft, angelic face. He still had baby fat for God’s sake! He was just a kid. He was a great con-man, and catching him was going to be the highlight of Hanratty’s career. But when all was said and done, he _was_ just a kid.

Just a scared kid. When Hanratty had first caught up to The Kid in France, he’d been half crazy, frantic- scared. And Hanratty hadn’t been faking the concern he felt for The Kid’s welfare. Those people would have killed him, and Hanratty would do anything to stop it. He’d been scared for The Kid every day he’d been imprisoned in France. And when he’d finally gotten to The Kid, he’d been horrified by the conditions they kept him in, and scared to death when he’d keeled over in the cell. He’d exhausted every measure at his disposal to get to The Kid, and to get him out, quickly. It wasn’t about some jurisdictional pissing match, U.S. versus France. It wasn’t about staking his claim to the conman he’d chased for years.

But he _had_ chased The Kid for years. Picked through every detail of his lives, from the fake ones down to the real. He knew the things about The Kid that he couldn’t hide, no matter what- like how he always used his first name, Frank, and how he had to tear the labels off of containers. He felt like he really knew The Kid, as though he were a close personal friend.

Hanratty was staring at The Kid, lost in his thoughts. He snapped back into reality when The Kid stirred and began to wake.

“Morning,” Hanratty paused for a moment. He’d been about to say ‘Kid’, but that was a private name that he only used in his thoughts. It didn’t feel right saying it out loud. The next thing he came up with spilled from his tongue, “Frankie.”

“Frankie?” The Kid looked at him incredulously. “Nobody’s called me that since the second grade!” He sounded annoyed; Hanratty made a mental note to use the nickname often.

The Kid stared out the window for a moment, watching the activity on the ground. Hanratty watched him, and wondered if he’d teased too much, or if The Kid simply didn’t want to talk. He certainly looked like he had something on his mind.

“Carl,” The Kid said, turning back to him. “Carl,” Frank leaned over the empty seat between them. “You have to remember to let me call my father when we land. I just want to talk to him, before he sees me on television or something like that.”

It hit Hanratty like a punch to the gut. He looked away. He knew it was stupid to lie to a conman, but he’d been desperate. Anything to get The Kid to come with him willingly. Anything to take him somewhere safe. And now he was paying the price for saying it.

The Kid, having spoken, was settled back in his seat, looking out the window once more. Hanratty unbuckled his seatbelt and shifted into the chair beside Frank.

“Look,” The Kid said thoughtfully. “That’s LaGuardia right there. Runway 4-4.” He seemed calm, and just a bit cheerful. Like he was glad it was over. Hanratty remembered the call he’d received on Christmas, The Kid begging him to call a truce. He probably _was_ glad that it was over.

But it wasn’t entirely over. Hanratty braced himself, knowing that he’d have to say this bluntly, without hesitation. “Frank, your father is dead. I’m sorry.”

And that was it. He tried to explain what had happened to The Kid’s father, tried to explain why he’d had to lie, but… The Kid ran into the bathroom and Hanratty tried to follow, only to have the door slammed in his face. The Kid was banging against the walls, and he could hear him sobbing. Hanratty stood patiently outside the door, kicking himself for the lie.

And then when the plane had been about to touch down, he’d broken down the door and realized that The Kid was gone. He’d tried to chase him, but after they’d landed, he’d known they wouldn’t catch him at the airport. But he knew where they _would_ catch him.

 

 

*          *          *

Then hours later he was at Frank’s mother’s house, where she lived with her new husband and little daughter. There were several police cars, surrounding the house and lighting up the night with their flashing lights. It was overkill. He was just a scared, sad kid. He wasn’t going to run anymore. All of the fight was gone from him.

“Carl,” The Kid begged. “Get me in the car, please! Get me in the car.”

“Put him in,” Hanratty ordered. He was angry, not with The Kid for running, but with the police force for this display of power. All these cars to capture a forger who had escaped from FBI custody. They must be so proud of themselves.

Never mind that The Kid just surrendered. He had lost his will to escape. He was tired of running from the law, tired of fearing for his life, tired of not being there for people he loved. There was no need to send so many cars after one broken kid. It would have been better for The Kid if Hanratty had just gone himself. Then he’d have been with someone he trusted, someone he didn’t have anything to prove to.

The Kid had always been cocky, always cared what people thought of him. Surely he wouldn’t want all these cops, who probably had the intellect of grade-schoolers compared to him, to see him surrender. Or to see him broken as he was. But he wasn’t going to fight it. He was too tired for that. Watching him sit in the van, his face alternately bathing in red light, then shadows, Hanratty felt he’d somehow betrayed The Kid by bringing these people here to witness his surrender. He hated himself for doing it.

*          *          *

Hanratty tried to visit The Kid as often as he could. Whenever he was in Georgia, or could swing a trip to Georgia, he was there. His case load was a lot lighter now. Nothing was as interesting without The Kid out there. It felt like his divorce had. Like something he’d always thought would be there, something he’d depended on as a constant in his life, was somehow ripped away. He could visit The Kid, the same way he could visit his daughter Grace, but it wasn’t the same.

The Kid had been in prison for a year now. He was twenty years old, not really a ‘kid’ any more, but Hanratty couldn’t stop calling him that. At least he never said it out loud. Whenever he was close to calling Frank ‘Kid,’ he’d kick himself and say ‘Frankie’ instead. The Kid seemed more amused and a little embarrassed by the nickname than annoyed.

The Kid sighed heavily into the phone, making out that he was really upset about the visit. As though he had something better to do. As though he had other visitors. Hanratty had no doubt that The Kid was keeping busy- Planning his next escape attempt? Learning from books how to impersonate a federal agent? -but he knew that there weren’t any other visitors.

“Merry Christmas, Frank.” Hanratty tried to smile. The Kid just nodded without looking at him. “Hey, I got you some comic books here.” He held them up. Trying to make a joke. Trying to make a stab at a real friendship.

“How’s your daughter?” Frank asked. “What was her name?”

“Grace. Good,” Hanratty answered automatically. The truth was, he didn’t know. But he could be honest with this man, this kid. “I don’t know. She lives with her mother in Chicago; I don’t get to see her very much.”

The Kid nodded slowly. “What’s in the briefcase?”

Hanratty started to explain about his latest case, and took note of how The Kid perked up in interest. “Got any of the checks?” The Kid asked him.

Hanratty produced the check eagerly. It felt good to talk business with someone who knew it well. His job, at least, was something he could depend on.

“It’s a teller,” The Kid asserted, and at Hanratty’s prompting, went on to explain how he knew this. He watched The Kid lean in close to the window, staring at the check intently as he spoke. The Kid knew his stuff. It was good for him to be able to talk about something that interested him. A mind like that, it ought to be put to use, not spent scamming inmates and working through prison libraries. It made him happy, to see The Kid interested in something. The Kid was brilliant. He deserved a place where he could use his mind.

It was that, the desire to help The Kid, more than the need for his skills that prompted Hanratty to ask the FBI to let Frank Abagnale out of prison to work for them. He didn’t really need The Kid. He was doing just fine without him- he’d caught The Kid hadn’t he?

But he wanted to help Frank. Wanted to give him a chance to work with things that interested him, challenged him. Wanted to get him out of prison, and give him a way to put his skills to legitimate use, a sustainable career.

And he wanted to spend time with Frank. Talking to The Kid every now and then wasn’t enough; having The Kid around every day, to talk to, about work or anything really, it would be like that pillar in his life that had crumbled was being put back in place.

And then if he was being honest, The Kid _was_ useful. There was no one in the Bureau half as smart, and Hanratty grudgingly included himself in this count. The Kid was good for business.

*          *          *

That was why Hanratty spent the next four years getting The Kid out of prison. And he wished he could say it was worth it, watching The Kid walk through that room full of FBI agents on the first day. Perhaps the harshness of prison life had shaved away some of his natural charisma. Perhaps it had never recovered from the night he was captured. But the person that walked through the FBI squadroom wasn’t a charismatic con-man; it was a scared kid in over his head.

“Carl, how long do I have to work here?” The Kid asked, leaning against his door. He looked tired, and Hanratty wanted to tell him to sit down and rest.

Instead he intentionally misunderstood the question. “Eight-fifteen in the morning to five in the afternoon, forty-five minutes for lunch.”

“No, I mean, how long?” Just that scared kid again. Except he wasn’t a kid anymore, he was twenty-four years old, and Hanratty knew the nickname should have gone away long ago, but it hadn’t, and it looked like it wasn’t going to. He resisted the urge to pull The Kid into the room and push him into a chair. He looked so world-weary it was hard to believe he was only twenty-four.

“Every day. Every day, Frank, ’til we let you go.” He didn’t want to include himself in the ‘we,’ since he didn’t want to be the one chaining down such a free spirit. It hurt to see The Kid still looking so broken, and if running would make him himself again, Hanratty wasn’t sure he could bring himself to stop him. But he did say ‘we,’ because he knew The Kid probably saw him as part of the FBI, part of the decision to take him out of prison, and to keep him here. And if that idea helped The Kid feel safer, like he knew where everyone stood and was on solid ground, Hanratty wasn’t going to change it.

*          *          *

That first week seemed to drag on, like The Kid was fighting every step of the way, and the other FBI agents were fighting him. They didn’t want to work with a criminal. Finally it was Friday night, and he had to explain to The Kid that he wasn’t going to be there over the weekend.

“So what should I do ‘til Monday?” Frank asked.

“I’m sorry, Kid, I can’t help you there,” the nickname slipped out. Damn! And he’d been trying so hard to keep that from happening.

But he knew what The Kid was going to do. After all these years, he knew exactly what The Kid was thinking.

So he met The Kid at the airport terminal, and was somewhat gratified when The Kid seemed surprised that he was there. And also somewhat disappointed. After so long, he’d hoped The Kid would know him just as well. He’d just have to convince The Kid that he was trustworthy.

“Listen,” The Kid said, “I’m sorry I put you through all this.” ‘All this’ had been some of the best things to happen to Hanratty since his divorce.

“You go back to Europe, you’re going to die in prison,” Hanratty told him. “Try to run here in the Sates, we’ll send you back to Atlanta for fifty more years.” He really didn’t want to say ‘we,’ but it was inevitable. It was going to happen, whether Hanratty personally took part or not. He needed Frank to understand that.

“You don’t know that,” The Kid insisted. Just a stubborn kid trying to deny the inevitable. Hanratty had to make him see.

“I spent four years trying to arrange your release. Had to convince my bosses at the FBI and the Attorney General of the United States you wouldn’t run.”

“Why’d you do it?” The Kid asked, as if he didn’t think he was worth the time and effort. Hanratty wanted to shake him and tell him he _was_ worthy of the effort, he did deserve a family and people to take care of him, however screwed up his childhood had been. He wanted to tell Frank about the pillar Frank had become in his life, and how he felt he knew him after all this time.

But he couldn’t say that. “You’re just a kid.”

“Not your kid,” Frank snapped, angry. “You said you were going to Chicago!”

“My daughter can’t see me this weekend; she’s going skiing.” Honesty. Frank was probably the only person he always answered honestly.

“You said she was four years old. You’re lying.” Maybe not always. But it was a half-truth, and Frank told him the like all the time. Couldn’t two play at that game? Besides, he was going to be honest now.

“She _was_ four, when I left.” Hanratty noticed that The Kid had turned back a bit. “Now she’s fifteen. My wife’s been remarried eleven years. I see Grace every now and then.”

“I don’t understand,” The Kid grumbled.

“Sure you do. Sometimes it’s easier living a lie.” They were both liars, then. Both of them trying to run from reality, trying to pretend things weren’t the way they were. Maybe it was time he took off his wedding ring.

The Kid paused at the exit of the tunnel, and Hanratty caught up to him. “I’m going to let you fly tonight, Frank. Not even going to try to stop you. ‘Cause I know you’ll be back on Monday.”

It wasn’t knowing; more like a wish, a prayer. He didn’t want The Kid to feel chained; he wanted Frank to be in the office because it was what Frank wanted, not because he feared the consequences. As for the consequences… he really hoped he wouldn’t have to hunt Frank down again. The Kid obviously was still recovering from the first time.

“Yeah?” The Kid challenged. “How do you know I’ll come back?”

“Look, Frank.” Hanratty pointed to the empty tunnel. “Nobody’s chasing you.” Not that it would be like that for very long, if he did run. But maybe if he didn’t feel cornered, he’d be more likely to come back of his own free will. And then Hanratty wouldn’t have to put the poor kid through another brutal chase.

*          *          *

Then on Monday, he was worried when The Kid wasn’t there at the start of the work day. Not worried that Frank hadn’t trusted him; he was disappointed if that was the case, but it wasn’t what he was worried about. He was worried that he’d have to send out people to search for The Kid. Again.

That wasn’t what The Kid needed, when he was starting to heal from the last time. Perhaps this, giving him this choice, was too much too soon, and The Kid had gotten scared and run.

Scared. Frank Abagnale didn’t scare easily. He wasn’t scared of the law; he wasn’t scared of the consequences of his actions. What he was scared of, was people. He didn’t like to trust; he didn’t like to open himself up. He liked to look out at people from behind a mask, and control everything they knew or thought about him. It made him feel safe.

Hanratty had long ago gotten past that mask to see the real Frank. And he didn’t know if Frank could handle that.

So he threw himself into his work, trying not to look at the clock, or wonder what The Kid was doing now.

And then as he was examining a forged check, an elegant hand took the eyepiece away from him. “Mind if I take a look?”

Hanratty could only stare at him stupidly for a moment, internally rejoicing in The Kid’s presence. He handed over the check and began explaining its origins, and the two briefly discussed ways it could have been made. The FBI agents gathered around scattered to their respective desks.

“How did you do it, Frank?” Hanratty asked after a moment. “How did you cheat on the bar exam in Louisiana?”

Frank looked up. For a moment Hanratty saw a flash of hurt in his expression. Then he just looked smug. “I didn’t cheat. I studied for two weeks and I passed.”

“Is that the truth, Frank?” Hanratty tried not to sound too eager. He definitely wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that the brilliant kid was just that good, and that he valued himself enough as a person not to take the easy way out in something when he was capable of doing it the right way. “Is that the truth?”

“I’ll bet this guy steals checks out of mailboxes,” Frank said. “He washes off their names and he puts on his own.”

Typical Frank- changing the subject whenever someone got close to seeing the real him. Hanratty hoped it would be happening less and less. He leaned back in his chair and ran with the change in topic.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was amazing how being in prison made one think about one’s life, think about things that should have been done, or shouldn’t have, or should have been done differently. And about why things had been done in the first place.

Frank Abagnale Jr. didn’t like to think about his life. It forced him to look in the face some ugly truths he’d rather not think about at all. Maybe that was the reason, really. The reason he’d always been on the move, from one city, one name, one profession to another. So he would never slow down and have time to think.

The ugly truth was that Frank Abagnale Jr. couldn’t hold together any sort of relationship. Every relationship in his life had ended up a mangled version of an unreachable ideal. Maybe it was Frank who messed them up. Maybe he just fell in with the wrong people. Either way, the end result was the same.

Just look at his parents! That was a can of worms he’d rather not open. Not that he had much of a choice, all alone with nothing to do. Solitary confinement was a bitch.

His mother he wanted to hate, but never really could. She’s betrayed his father, slept with another man. And she’d tried to get Frank to cover it up. He’d tried to lay all the blame on the other man, but somewhere deep inside, he’d always known, her hands were not clean in this. And then she’d just disappeared, off with a new husband, a new family. She’d abandoned both her husband and her son. Even though she’d tried to take Frank with her, she’d never tried to contact him after he’d run away. He wondered if she’d ever loved his father. Or if his father had loved her. He wondered what love was, and if it existed at all.

Then there was his father, the man who had been betrayed. He’d loved and hated his father in different ways. The man had never cared whether Frank was a conman or a businessman. He’d been a little of both himself, and he was neither disappointed nor excited by anything Frank told him about his life. Frank had always been desperate for praise; anyone’s really, but especially his father’s. As a kid, he’d done things to make himself stand out and get noticed. Anything to make people pay attention to him. Then his father— conman or businessman, his father dismissed him all the same. The only thing he didn’t dismiss was the free gifts, like flights around the world. He only cared about what he could get from his son, not about Frank himself. But Frank had still done everything he could to get the man’s approval. His father’s death had been painful for Frank, but it had also been like a sigh of relief. He had no one to prove himself to anymore. He could be his own man. He’d thought he was before, but he’d never realized how much control his father still had over him.

Next up, the women in his life. There had been several of them. Let’s consider Brenda first, his fiancé. He’d never really cared about her. She was just the next victim, the next con, the next person to get sex from. And marriage? The next big adventure. It had been time for a change, that was true. He was getting tired of running. But marriage would never have worked. He’d have been gone in a couple months at most. The only reason he’d held on so long was because he hated any kind of failure. He didn’t want to fail at getting the girl. And then he’d just left her. Got himself a pack of college students/stewardesses to see him off, and just left the country. No strings. No nothing. Leaving her didn’t hurt at all; not like it should have.

As for the others, they were just another way to keep himself entertained. He’d never wanted any sort of long-term relationship. That would mean stopping, and he couldn’t stop. But he did get lonely. And he craved, needed the attention. It was all about getting people to pay attention to him, not about any emotional connection. Though when it came right down to it, maybe he was running to forget how much he needed that, too.

He’d always done anything for attention. So it was ironic, really, that he’d ended up in such a self-effacing work. Forgery. The entire point was for one’s work  _not_  to be noticed. The entire point was  _not_ to attract attention. Still, reading articles about the “James Bond of the Sky” gave him a bigger thrill than any heist ever did. Maybe his father never noticed him, but the world did.

And then the FBI had. It was exhilarating, having someone following him around like that. They were paying absolute and complete attention to him, and he controlled their investigation through the clues he left. It gave him the two things he wanted most: control, and an audience.

At least, those were the things he’d thought he wanted. Until he’d ended up matching wits with agent Carl Hanratty. Then suddenly things were different. It wasn’t just society, or the FBI, who was watching him. It was one person who was focused completely on him. One person, whose name he knew and whose face he could identify in a crowd. It felt good.

That was the biggest reason he’d kept running, even after he’d wanted so much to give up that one Christmas. He needed Carl’s attention. Carl was the only one who’d always been there, a constant in his life. He was the only one who’d always been there when Frank looked back for him, no matter what. And Frank had been terrified that all of that would end when he was caught. He’d been afraid Carl would move on to the next case, and he’d be forgotten and alone.

But he wasn’t. Even now, Carl was visiting him as often as he could. It was those visits that kept Frank sane during the long periods in solitary confinement. If not for them, Frank suspected he’d have cracked long ago. Solitary confinement was definitely a bitch. What’s more, Carl was actually working on a way to get him out of there. All legal, too. Frank was going to be working for the FBI, catching check forgers. He’d be working with the things he loved. Even though he’d never say as much to Hanratty, he couldn’t be more grateful.

Carl had been a major part of his life since they’d first met in that motel in Hollywood, when he’d fooled the man and gotten away. Carl had proved again and again that he’d always be there when Frank looked for him. That was true both during the chase, and after. He’d been talking to Carl a lot, since the man had gotten him out of the French prison. He’d learned a lot about the man who’d been hunting him all this time.

Carl represented a lot of things Frank wanted. Family, for one thing. He was an ideal father and husband. Even though he and his wife had split up, he was still loyal- wore his wedding ring. He still tried to visit his little girl, something no one had even suggested in his parents’ breakup. The man was proof that love, at least, existed.

Carl Hanratty was the ideal everything for Frank. He was intelligent, which Frank knew well after years of mental sparring. He was loyal; he stuck with his wife, and he’d stuck with Frank’s case no matter how hard it got. He was the only person who had never let Frank down in any way.

For these reasons, Frank wasn’t really surprised when he found he’d developed a sort of crush on the man. It started off as innocent things- daydreaming about having conversations with him. Wondering what he’d think about Frank’s latest epiphany. Somehow, those things never actually got said when Carl visited.

Then it was daydreams about them sitting in a semi-romantic setting, like a park or something equally ridiculous. Talking, or sometimes not, just lying there or sitting there, together, happy. Frank had no idea where his subconscious was getting this from, but he’d never minded. It made a pleasant daydream.

After that, things had gotten weird. Sometimes the romance scenes were blown out of proportion- a candle-lit dinner in a fancy restaurant in France, for instance. Sometimes it was entirely domestic- Frank trying to cook dinner while Carl stood over his shoulder and told him he’d need to learn to make something besides pancakes. Often they were touching in the daydreams- holding hands as they walked, hugging, lying cuddled up together on a couch. Frank had done a lot of things with the girls he’d met throughout his career, but he’d never done anything like what was in these daydreams. They seemed incredibly childish, and for that reason, Frank dismissed them as harmless fantasies.

Then he’d caught himself idly daydreaming about what it would be like to kiss Carl. What he’d smell like, taste like, what his hair would feel like. That was when he’d started to get a bit worried. It was just a little kiss- at first. Then it was more. Daydreams- fantasies! -of deeper, longer kisses until he was imagining being sprawled on a couch or bed, or just up against a wall, with Carl kissing him until he was dizzy from lack of air.

Frank would have been really worried- except none of that could ever happen. He didn’t have to worry about what desires he had, or controlling them. There was a glass wall between them every time they spoke. But he didn’t know how long it would be there, anymore.

*          *          *

When Carl brought his boss in to see Frank examine a forged check, it was all Frank could do not to tackle Carl and kiss him. He rubbed his hands together on the table and tried not to let his hands reach towards Carl. He focused his attention on the check before him, and directed all of his statements to Hanratty’s boss, not allowing himself to even look at the man who haunted his dreams.

“Frank,” the boss said, “Would you be interested in a working with the FBI’s Financial Crimes Unit?

There it was: the chance of a lifetime. The chance to get out of the tiny, lonely cell that was slowly driving him insane. The chance to work with forged checks, an area in which no other person knew more than he. And maybe, the chance to escape, and run again.

But there wouldn’t be a need to run, because Carl would be right there. He would have all the attention he wanted, from someone who could appreciate his skills and discuss them with him. He’d never have to be alone again.

And it scared him. Could he trust this man? Yes, he could, he knew he could. Carl had always been there, even when no one else was. But was he able to put his trust in the man? Was he able to depend on him to fill the void he’d always felt?

And what about these urges? Could he trust himself not to act on them? Could he trust Hanratty not to hate and abandon him if Frank did act on them?

It was all too much. He didn’t know if he could do it.

“I’ve already got a job here,” Frank said. “You know, I, uh, deliver the mail.”

“Frank, we have the power to take you out of prison.” He knew that already. “You’d be placed in the custody of the FBI where you’d serve out the remained of your sentence as an employee of the federal government.”

It was tempting. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could be in that cell without cracking. And what if he turned them down? Would Carl give up on him and stop visiting? He couldn’t bear that. Maybe the daydreams were just a side effect of being in solitary for so long. Maybe once he was out, they would end.

“Under whose custody?” He asked. And Carl raised his hand.

Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful. He’d be with Carl all the time, then, with the other man watching him, checking up on him at home to make sure he hadn’t run, hell, maybe they’d even have Frank live with the man!

But it wasn’t like he could turn down the offer.

*          *          *

Frank couldn’t stand working at the FBI. It was stifling- he felt like he was still in prison, only the guards were watching him a lot closer than before, and much more menacingly. And the daydreams hadn’t gone away. They’d gotten worse. Almost every night since his release, he’d woken up sweaty and sticky from dreams that seriously disturbed him.

There was no way he could keep this up. No way he could see Carl every day without snapping. No way he could trust his happiness to this man- or to his own ability to control his feelings. If he did something stupid, then all of this was over, and he’d be alone again, and back in prison.

There was only one thing to do: he’d have to run away. That way, everything would go back to the way it was. He’d be running, living fast, without having to think. And Carl would be there, like always, but at a distance. He wouldn’t have to worry about destroying everything he had because he couldn’t control his feelings.

He needed the attention. He needed Carl; he couldn’t just break that off. But he just wasn’t ready to rely on the man. His parents, the only people he’d ever really loved, they’d betrayed him. He didn’t know if he was ready to open his heart and soul to this man.

And anyways, it seemed there were parts of his soul that Carl was better off not finding out about. Either way, he couldn’t stay here. He needed Carl, but he just couldn’t be this close to him.

*          *          *

Frank stood in the tunnel after Carl had left, thinking. The man had risked a lot for him, and here Frank was going to embarrass him again. He’d meant it when he’d said he was sorry, before, for embarrassing him at the motel. He didn’t want Carl to get in trouble on his account.

But he couldn’t stay. He had to leave, just had to. He couldn’t stand this stifling feeling. Frank got on his plane and flew to California, where he planned to stay while he got all of this sorted out.

*          *          *

Frank had made his decision. In the end, it wasn’t much of one. It was either go back and stay with Carl, or run and be put in prison for the rest of his life, or maybe even killed. It was obvious to anyone what the choice should be.

But it was still difficult to make.

Carl had trusted him. Trusted him with his career, which was his entire life. If Frank had run, Carl was finished as an FBI agent. And that was all he had left in the world, Frank and his job.

So maybe not Frank. Frank didn’t know how Carl felt, didn’t know if Carl considered Frank an integral part of his life, a partner and counterpart that he couldn’t live without, the way Frank thought of Carl. Frank had realized that this went beyond a need for attention, or stupid daydreams. It was all about this man, this man, and he couldn’t live without knowing Carl was there with him. He didn’t know if Carl felt the same, or if he just wanted someone smart working cases with him.

But Carl had trusted him. That meant that Frank was more to him than just a way to catch other criminals. Carl had trusted Frank with his entire life. That meant Frank could trust Carl with his. Frank could trust this man to see his innermost feelings, hear his private thoughts, and not betray him. And maybe, he could trust this man not to hate him when he found out about Frank’s secret desires.

It would be difficult. He’d never really trusted anyone since he’d left home. It was going to take some time for him to take down the walls he’d built around himself for years. But Carl had already gotten past some of them, hadn’t he? He knew who Frank Abagnale was, when everyone else had only known what Frank showed them.

And he knew, if he didn’t go back, he would die. Not just because he’d get caught in Europe, or go mad in Atlanta, but because he wouldn’t be able to live without seeing Carl every day. He’d just die. So his choice was made.

Late Sunday night, Frank sat in the jump seat, waiting for the plane to take off. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He couldn’t wait to see Carl on Monday.

But the flight was delayed. And then they flew into a storm, and were forced to land. Frank spent the night in the terminal with hundreds of other passengers, agonizing over how he would get back to the FBI headquarters in D.C. The storm lasted all night, and by the time Frank was able to get on a plane to D.C., the sun had already risen. Fortunately, there were no more delays. Frank landed in D.C. just before noon, and, finding the wait for a cab too long, ran all he way to the tiny apartment he’d been renting.

He changed from his pilot’s uniform and hung it up- for the last time, maybe! –and then ran the rest of the way to the FBI headquarters. He paused at the door to his squadroom, breathing heavily. He petted down his hair and re-tucked his shirt, wanting to look like everything was fine. Like he’d come in late on purpose in order to annoy Carl. That would get a rise out of him! Frank just hoped the man wasn’t seriously beginning to doubt him.

When Frank walked in, most of the agents in the room were congregated around Carl’s desk, looking over his shoulders as he examined a check. Frank approached and watched for a moment before reaching out to tap the eyepiece. “Mind if I take a look?”

Carl stared at him for a moment, as though he wasn’t sure he could believe Frank was there. Frank wanted to smirk, like it was some kind of joke, but he couldn’t. It was too serious a matter.

Carl handed over the eyepiece and check, and explained where it had come from. Business as usual. Frank listened carefully as he examined the small paper. The other agents dispersed.

“How did you do it, Frank?” Carl asked after a moment of silence. “How did you cheat on the bar exam in Louisiana?”

It hurt, a little, to know that Carl always expected him to cheat. Always expected him to lie, take the easy way out, and do as little work as he could for the greatest pay out. He wasn’t like that. He took pride in his work, every piece, and he never cut corners. Especially not where tests were concerned. Frank Abagnale was a genius; he just didn’t have a diploma or degree to prove it.

“I didn’t cheat,” Frank said solemnly. “I studied for two weeks and I passed.”

“Is that the truth, Frank?” Carl sounded eager. It embarrassed Frank a little, and made him wonder if he’d been wrong about Carl’s reasons for asking. Maybe Carl wanted to believe Frank was honorable, but didn’t want to let himself believe it without making sure it was true. “Is that the truth?”

Yes, it was. But Frank suddenly felt a spasm of fear. He didn’t want to tell Carl why he’d done it the right way; he didn’t want to explain to him his private reasons for the things he did. He wanted to trust Carl, God, did he, but he couldn’t. It was just too damn soon. But he would be able to, someday. He just had to keep working on it.

“I’ll bet this guy steals checks out of mailboxes,” Frank said to change the subject. “He washes of their names and he puts on his own.”

Carl didn’t push it, and Frank was glad for that. Carl probably knew him better than he knew himself. He understood that Frank had to move at his own pace for this part. Instead he ran with the new topic, and the two fell into an eager discussion of the forger’s methods.

*          *          *

A week later, Frank was looking over yet another check by the same forger. This guy was good. He never made any mistakes. His materials were perfect. If Frank had still been in the business, he’d have considered this man a rival.

Frank heard something drop onto his desk and looked up. It was a Chinese takeout box. Carl stood before his desk, holding an opened box and a set of chopsticks. “Mind if I sit?”

“Sure,” Frank said, moving a couple stacks of paper so Carl and he would have room to eat. It was amazing how well he’d adjusted to this life, since he’d made the decision to stay permanently. He felt like a real agent. His desk certainly looked the part. “Sure, take a seat.”

Carl did, and slurped down a clump of noodles from his chopsticks. Frank tried to ignore the way the agent across from him licked his lips after swallowing, and concentrated on opening his own box. He was going to get used to takeout, he figured. FBI agents seemed to live off of it. Their diets made his pancakes-for-dinner cooking skills seem like those of a five-star restaurant chef.

A lot of these agents, he’d learned, didn’t have families to go back to at night. Some did, but didn’t want to go back to them. Either way, almost all of them stayed late every night. They actually had a weekly schedule as to what they’d have every night of the week, and who would have to take orders and money, and go buy it all. Tonight was Carl’s night, Chinese food.

After a moment, Carl spoke. “Frank, how did you study for that bar exam?”

Frank gulped down a bite of his own noodles and smiled, remembering. “I, uh. I watched TV. A lot of cop shows, lawyer shows. That sort of thing. I learned how to be a doctor the same way.”

“No kidding?” Carl said. Although his voice seemed monotone and his eyes were on his food, Frank knew he was paying special attention to their conversation. “How’d you learn to be a pilot?”

“Co-pilot,” Frank corrected, grinning. “And I never actually flew a plane. I was just the deadhead.”

“The what?” Carl asked around a mouthful of noodles, and Frank just laughed and took a bite of his. He didn’t answer either question. But he’d answered the first. And that was progress. Looking at Carl’s eyes, he knew the other man had noticed too.  


	3. Chapter 3

It was Christmas again. It amazed Hanratty, how the year had flown by since The Kid had returned to the FBI. Now it was Christmas again, and like always, he was spending it with Frank. Only this time, it wasn’t over the phone or through a piece of glass. The Kid was actually there, in his kitchen, with Hanratty tonight.

He’d invited The Kid over for Christmas dinner, and he’d shown up in mid-afternoon, while Hanratty was preparing said dinner. At the moment, he was trying to explain to The Kid how to make the stuffing for Christmas turkey. For someone who’d been on his own since a young age, The Kid had somehow never acquired basic household skills. Probably fraudulently paid people to do all of that for him, before.

They’d both lived off of takeout for the past few months. A little home cooking would do them both good. So would a break. They’d been on the tail of the latest forger for months, and flown all over the country after him. Hanratty had teased The Kid that this was even more difficult than chasing him. The kid replied that Hanratty was just getting old.

Once the turkey had been put in the oven, the two of them came to the couch to watch TV. There was some kind of Christmas program on every channel, but it didn’t really matter what they watched. He was just glad to have The Kid here, with him. It was good not to be lonely anymore.

Hanratty hadn’t realized it until now, but he was more than used to having The Kid with him. They’d gone all over the country in the past few months, and Frank had always been right beside him, every step of the way. There had been times when he’d given the young man a gun and told Frank to cover him when he went into a forger’s hideout. He’d never once hesitated to give a gun to one of the most prolific con-men in history. He’d just done it, and trusted that The Kid would indeed have his back. And he had.

There had been times when they’d share a pair of single rooms connected by a bathroom, and take turns showering and brushing their teeth. It felt perfectly natural, like they’d been doing it for years. He’d once surprised himself, after a particularly long road trip, by waiting for several minutes outside the closed door of his own bathroom, before he’d realized that it was empty. There was no one else in his home.

But it was now that it finally hit home how much The Kid had become a fixture in his life. Up to now, he’d always been alone on Christmas. Even when he was calling Frank, or visiting him in prison, there had always been several hours when he was by himself. It was painfully sad. No one should ever be alone on Christmas.

And now he wasn’t. The Kid, Frank, he was here, now, in Hanratty’s apartment. The Kid was here, and he wasn’t alone any more. It was like having a family again. It made a warm, secure, comfortable feeling swell inside Hanratty’s chest. He hoped The Kid never left. At least not tonight. He didn’t want to be alone for any part of Christmas night.

Frank shifted on the couch next to him. He was blinking and his head was bobbing a bit. He was probably exhausted. It had been a rough couple days, and a rough couple months before that. Hanratty reached out and put an arm around The Kid’s shoulders, pulling him over to lean against Hanratty’s shoulder. The Kid didn’t object, but sighed softly and nuzzled against his shoulder. He must have been more tired than Hanratty had thought.

He turned down the volume on the TV to the level of pleasant background noise and ran the hand still around Frank’s shoulders gently down the young man’s back. “Go to sleep, Kid,” Hanratty told him, not caring that the nickname slipped out. He’d been getting much better about that, even in his head, so a little mistake could be forgiven. “I know you’re beat.”

“Don’ wanna miss the turkey,” Frank mumbled.

“I’ll wake you up when it’s done. Won’t be for a couple hours. Sleep.” The Kid did as he was told, for once.

*          *          *

Hanratty watched Frank’s face as he slept. He always looked so peaceful when he was asleep. It was something Hanratty had first noticed on the plane back from France. When he was awake, Frank’s face was always dynamic, always alive with one emotion or another. When he was asleep, he was calm. It was good to see him like that.

Hanratty gently smoothed a few strands of hair from Frank’s angelic face. It occurred to him that he was really pushing it, having The Kid in his home. He’d known for a while that he was attracted to The Kid- that was even part of the reason he’d continued to use the nickname. To remind him that Frank was just a kid, and off-limits for a grown man.

Only he wasn’t a kid anymore. He was an adult, and he was capable of making his own decisions. He’d made a lot of progress since he’d willingly returned to the FBI, and he seemed to trust Hanratty implicitly now. That made it worse, though, when he thought about his feelings for The Kid.

The feelings… were difficult to describe. He wasn’t sure when they’d begun. It had started out as grudging respect for the skilled con-man. Then he’d started digging into Frank’s past and studying his movements and actions, and the information he found made him feel like he knew him, understood what made him tick.

Then the calls had started, and he’d begun to understand Frank beyond knowing why he did what he did. He saw Frank as a person, rather than just facts on a sheet or someone far away that he was hunting. They were alike, in a way. Neither had a family they could go back to, so they threw themselves into their work and tried not to think about it.

That was when it had started, Hanratty supposed, the desire to protect Frank. He understood that Frank felt betrayed by his family, and that this was a big part of why he did what he did. He wanted to protect Frank from feeling betrayed again. And after he’d caught up with The Kid in France, he’d truly been terrified of what the French police would do to him. It was then that the desire to protect him physically had begun.

Some time during the chase, after the first phone call, but before the second, a physical attraction had begun. It was strange, considering he’d only seen The Kid once, but the feeling persisted. He couldn’t get the thought to go away, even after he’d found out Frank was only 16. He was attracted to Frank, but it wasn’t a burning, consuming sort of thing. It was always near-eclipsed by other, stronger feelings, like the desire to protect. And anyway, he respected Frank too much to be thinking about him when he jacked off.

After the arrest, in an effort to keep from betraying Frank himself, Hanratty had kept visiting The Kid in prison. He’d started to talk with him, and think of him as a real friend. When they’d started working together, the feeling had only been solidified. As partners, they had to trust each other, have each other’s backs.

And they spent a lot of time together, too. On road trips, in the office, out to lunch. Even though they rarely went to each other’s homes, there was something about the way they could coexist, and their friendship, and the way they continued to tease and pick at one another, that made Hanratty think of a married couple. Only this was much better than his last marriage.

He loved Frank; that was all there was to it. Carl Hanratty was in love with Frank Abagnale Jr. He wanted to hold him, kiss him, lie on the couch like this with him, and cook dinner with him, like they were doing now. It wasn’t about the physical part of a romantic relationship that he desire, as much as the emotional part.

All the same, it probably wasn’t good to have Frank in his apartment. Hanratty couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t slip up and hug The Kid, or kiss his cheek, or call him ‘Sweetheart’ like in his daydreams.

Because that would be sexual harassment. Not a good thing to have on one’s record with any coworker, but much worse when it was with someone you were clearly in a position of power over. If he slipped up, and Frank told on him, he’d be out the door before he could blink. The Bureau didn’t take such things lightly, and there had been a lot of problems with that of late.

*          *          *

When the oven beeped, Hanratty found that he would have to wake Frank up before he could get up to take the turkey out. But he couldn’t bear to disturb The Kid when he was sleeping so peacefully. As a result, he ended up sitting still until the decision of whether or not to wake Frank was taken from his hands, when the beeping of the oven did it for him.

“Is it done?” Frank asked sleepily. He pushed himself off of Hanratty’s shoulder to sit up straight, then rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Sounds like it,” Carl replied. “You must be pretty tired.”

“Yeah,” Frank sighed. “I was up all night going through some files. I thought I’d found a lead.”

“Anything?” Hanratty asked eagerly as he opened the oven to remove the turkey. It had been so long since they’d last gotten anything new on this guy.

“No. Turned out to be nothing.” Frank sighed heavily, and Hanratty looked over at him. The Kid was sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, looking worn both physically and mentally. Hanratty felt his heart contract at the sight.

He set the turkey on the counter quickly and went over the Frank. Hanratty sat next to the young man on the couch and reached out to clap his shoulder. “It’s alright, Frank, we’ve all chased our share of false leads. Pretty soon this guy’s gonna slip up, and when he does, we’ll get him.”

“I sure hope so, Carl.” Frank turned his head to face Hanratty. “I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this.”

“Maybe not,” Hanratty admitted, giving the man’s shoulder a squeeze where his hand still lay. “But it’s all you can do for now. If you help us with a lot of cases, you may be released from FBI custody even sooner. Then you can do whatever you want.”

“I  _want_  to do this,” Frank asserted, glaring just a bit. Then his face fell, and he looked away. “I just don’t know if I can. God, Carl, I never knew how much I put you through.”

Hanratty looked at Frank for a long time. He wanted to say so many things. That Frank was forgiven a thousand times for everything he’d done before. That after this tough case, it’d be easier. That Frank could always come and talk to him, if he needed it.

But he didn’t say any of those things. “Come on. Dinner’s getting cold.”

Hanratty stood, and Frank sighed heavily before pushing himself up. Hanratty put a hand on the young man’s shoulder as he led him into the kitchen, all the comfort he could offer right then.

The turkey wasn’t cold, but it had cooled enough not to burn when eaten. As soon as Frank took one bite of it, he seemed to forget about the case. His eyes lit up, and he began wolfing down the food, actually lifting up the plate to shovel it into his mouth. Hanratty had to laugh out loud at the display; it was not what he would have expected from someone who had dined in five-star restaurants.

“Carl!” Frank spoke through a mouthful of stuffing. “This is great! You’ve got to teach me how to cook like this!”

Hanratty chuckled. “I don’t do this very often, since I’m always at the office eating take-out, but I can do a little better than pancakes.”

“So I can only cook pancakes. Sue me!” The Kid said cheerfully, flashing a roguish grin as he leaned back in his seat, plate clean.

“I’ll teach you whatever you want to know. For now, seconds?”

“Nah, I’m stuffed.” Frank patted his stomach. “You haven’t even touched yours!”

“ _Some_  people don’t feel the need to devour their food in record time!” Hanratty joked, continuing to eat at a normal pace. Frank laughed softly and leaned back more, so that his chair tipped back on its hind legs.

After a minute he spoke. “Hey, Frank, can I ask you something? A favor?”

Hanratty stopped eating to look at the man. Frank dropped the chair onto all four legs. “Sure, Frank, anything.”

“Can I spend the night here?” He seemed embarrassed by the request, for he quickly looked away. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I just don’t want to be alone on Christmas.”

“Sure, Frank,” Hanratty said with the utmost seriousness. “Of course you can.”

“Really?” Frank smiled a little. “Thanks, Carl.”

The rest of the meal was finished with companionable chatter, which both of them made certain stayed away from both work and family. After the meal had been eaten, dishes were loaded into the washer, and the leftover food was packed away.

It was late, so Hanratty began looking for spare blankets and pillows to accommodate Frank. The young man, meanwhile, made use of the spare toothbrush in the bathroom. By the time he came out, Hanratty had arranged a small blanket and a quilt on the couch, as well as the second pillow from his bed.

Frank was wearing only his shirt and boxers when he came out of the bathroom. He surveyed the makeshift bed and sat on it, looking up at Hanratty. “Thanks for letting me stay here, Carl.”

“You can stay here whenever you want,” Hanratty assured him. “Probably better than that tiny apartment you have.”

“The FBI doesn’t pay me.” Frank didn’t sound bitter. Angry, a little, but not bitter. “All they’ll give me is what they’d pay to house an inmate at a prison, and they expect me to live off of that.”

Hanratty sat next to him. “I can help you out, Frank, if you want.”

“No,” The Kid said insistently. “No, I don’t want your help.” He seemed to think it had come out too rudely, and tried to explain. “I mean, I don’t want charity. You understand, right?”

“Yeah,” Hanratty sighed. “Yeah, I understand. But I want you to understand, I’m here for you, whatever you need. If you want to talk about the case, or get it off your mind, or anything, you can come to me. You never have to be alone, unless you want to be.”

Frank leaned against his shoulder and his hand clutched at the fabric of the arm of his shirt. “Thanks, Carl.”

Hanratty wrapped his arm around the young man. “It’s a tough case, but we’ll solve it, and then everything else’ll seem a thousand times easier. And you can come to me for anything. I’m not going to leave you, Frank.”

Frank shifted away enough to look up and meet Hanratty’s eyes. For a moment Frank’s blue eyes filled his field of vision. They were beautiful eyes, deep and expressive. A person could get lost in those eyes.

The next thing Hanratty knew, Frank was leaning forward and the young man’s lips were touching his, and for a moment he froze in shock. Then he felt a soft, wet tongue slide lightly over his lips, jolting him into moving. Hanratty pulled back, hands on both of Frank’s shoulders to ward off more not-unwanted advances.

“Frank! We can’t do this!”

“Why not?” Frank was  _pouting_ , goddamnit! How was he supposed to resist that?

“Because!” Hanratty cried frantically. “I’m more than ten years older than you, and I have a kid, and I’m your boss while you’re with the FBI, and I could send you back to prison any time I want, and what the hell are you smiling about?” He was shouting now, and Frank was just sitting there, grinning, and he hoped to God this wasn’t just another joke, because if it was, his response probably wasn’t what The Kid had imagined.

“Because,” Frank said, somehow managing to keep his grin in place even as he spoke. “You didn’t say because you don’t like me.”

Well. Frank had him there; he hadn’t said it, and it wasn’t the truth. But still.

“I— You— That’s not-”

“Sure it is,” Frank said. “It’s the only thing that matters.” Frank kissed him again, a quick peck on the lips. “I love you.”

Hanratty could see he was fighting a losing battle. May as well surrender with some dignity. “I love you too, Frankie.”


End file.
